


sick day, four phone calls

by cnaught



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Fluff, Pre-Series, Present Tense, indirect hurt/comfort?, just go with it, mild royai, sick day, suspiciously convenient phone booth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 16:47:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11855688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnaught/pseuds/cnaught
Summary: She hates it when she misses work. Apparently, she isn't the only one.





	sick day, four phone calls

She hates missing work; it's like admitting weakness. But even her inimitable stubbornness will only take her so far. She’s spent half the night puking, and even if she was sure there was nothing left to come up, she knows the exhaustion alone will make her as useless today as the colonel in rain.

It’s still dark as she dials. The phone at the other end rings and rings, several times over, long enough for her stomach to roil again and for her to wonder if she will have to drop the receiver to go vomit mid-conversation.

Finally he picks up. “Mustang.” He sounds bleary. Of course she’s gotten him out of bed.

“Colonel.” Her own voice is hoarse, her throat rough from unaccustomed use.

“Lieutenant.” God damn him for going right to that sultry tone, for sounding so damn pleased. “You know, I’ve often wished to hear your voice in my ear, late at night.”

“I won’t be in to work today, sir. I’m not feeling well.”

A pause. “Is it serious?”

“Serious enough.” She hates the note of misery in her voice, and tries to school it to something more dispassionate. She ends up just sounding tired. “I don’t expect it to last. These things usually run their course quickly.”

“Do you need anything? I’ll send a doctor, or…” His playful tone is gone, and he sounds honestly concerned. Sweet, useless man.

“Sir, the only thing I need is to stop vomiting so I can get some sleep.” She takes a slow breath and tries to will her guts to settle. “It’s just a bug. No cause for concern.”

Pause. She can hear the objections he wants to make. “Fine,” he huffs. “But if anything changes, if you need anything, you will call me.”

“Sir.”

“That is an order, lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright.” He still sounds disgruntled, but it eases gradually. “Take care of yourself, Hawkeye. We need you back as soon as possible.”

“Understood, sir.”

“I hope you get some rest.”

“Thank you. Sorry for waking you.”

“Don’t be. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.” She hangs up, and goes back to the bathroom to retch unproductively into the toilet. Hayate follows and lays his little head in her lap.

 

She sleeps, finally, with a bowl next to her pillow. She isn’t certain how long her traitor body will let her rest — she is resigned to stumbling back and forth, from toilet to bed, every hour or two as she has been doing — but when she wakes again the sun is not only risen, but high; it must be nearly noon. And this time it’s not intestinal demands that have roused her but the shrill voice of the telephone. She hastens to answer. “Hello?”

“Ma’am, I’m here with your delivery, but the bell didn’t seem to work. Would you open the door?”

“Delivery.” It’s not a voice she recognizes.

“Yes, ma’am. The food you ordered?” The person sounds annoyed.

“I didn’t. Order any.” Her soldier’s mind slides easily to suspicion. Who would know she was at home alone, who would want to trick her into opening the door…

“That’s strange, I’m sure I have the address right… Aren’t you Miss Riza Hawkeye?” There is a rustling, as of someone in the close confines of a phone booth trying to check their instructions.

“I am.” The person then rattles off her address, and she confirms it’s correct. She rubs her tired eyes. “Would you be able to tell me how the order was paid for?”

“Oh… some military account, it looks like. Billed to an office in city command.”

She sighs. “I see. I think I understand. Thank you for your patience. I’ll be right down to open the door.” She hangs up and finds her wallet, pulls out a few hundred cens for a tip.

The bag’s contents, lined up on her counter: noodles in broth. Rice and vegetables. Almond cake, which she particularly likes. And, for some reason, potato leek dumplings. She puts the kettle on for tea and sips carefully at the broth. In an encouraging sign, it doesn’t immediately come back up.

She feeds Hayate a late breakfast. After a few bites of her own food, not wanting to press her luck, she settles on the couch with her tea and a book. In illness, for comfort, she likes rereading old favorites, especially the simplistic adventure stories she loved as a kid; she is halfway through a classic tale of swashbuckling explorers, the cheap paperback creased and battered, when her phone rings again. “Hello?”

“Lieutenant, sir. Sorry to disturb you.”

“Warrant Officer Falman.” She hears traffic in the background; he’s not in the office. “What’s going on?”

“I wanted to let you know, the chief seems to have gone off the rails, sir.” Frustration tinges his voice. “He’s insisted I bring you some files to look over. They’re not even urgent. I just don’t think it’s right, begging your pardon, sir, to work your subordinates to the bone like that, even when they’re ill.”

“I see,” she says coolly. “So you are…?”

“Well, I stepped out of the office with them. I thought, with your permission, sir, I would take them right back and leave them on your desk. There’s really nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow, sir.”

“And you would tell the colonel…?”

“That I had tried, but couldn’t reach you, sir.”

Hawkeye sighs. “You’re aware, warrant officer, that lying to your commanding officer is direct insubordination.”

“Yes sir.” The pause stretches out. Falman offers no further justification or apology.

She smiles. “Good man. Tell him I was sleeping and wouldn’t answer the door.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Falman, one thing.”

“Sir?”

“Between here and command, it’s at least a twenty minute walk. Don’t go back too soon.”

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Have a nice stroll.” She hangs up.

She reads, drinks more tea, dozes on the couch. Hayate comes and curls up at her feet, and though he is not strictly allowed on the furniture she doesn’t bother to shoo him off. Late in the day, sun slanting long through the window, she is just debating whether she wants to keep reading enough to switch on a light when her phone rings, again. “Hello?”

“Lieutenant Hawkeye — I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

Fuery, this time. “It’s no trouble, sergeant. What do you need?”

“It’s not a need, sir! I just thought — if you’d been laid up all day, perhaps, if you’d like, I could take the dog for a walk. Or, if there’s anything else I could do, to — to help.”

Poor Fuery, newest to the team and still a little afraid of her. She’d never say so but she thinks it’s the tiniest bit adorable. “Thank you, Fuery. I’d appreciate it, and so would Hayate. When do you think you will be here?”

“Um, sir. I’m at the phone booth on the corner.”

Aha. “Well, then. Let me get his leash on, and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Oh, no, sir, you don’t have to — that is, I can come fetch him, if you —”

“A bit of fresh air sounds good right now. There’s a bench just outside the building, I’ll wait there while you take him around the block. Agreed?”

“Y-yes sir.”

“Good. We’ll be just a minute then.”

She splashes cool water on her face, combs her hair, and pulls on a clean robe over her pajamas before clipping on Hayate’s leash and stepping outside. Fuery is standing nervously by the bench; she hands him the leash, thanks him again, and sees him off before taking a seat.

The evening air does feel good, running cool fingers through her loose hair and across her face. She can smell her neighbor’s window boxes, and the takeout curry place down the street, as well as smoke and dirt and garbage, sunbaked stone and just a hint of rot, all the city’s life at the end of the day and start of the night. It doesn’t really help a delicate stomach, but it makes her feel grounded; it’s strangely comforting. She closes her eyes and breathes.

Footsteps approach, crisp across the neat cobblestones, and stop. She doesn’t bother to open her eyes. “Excuse me, miss. Is this seat taken?” The voice, dark, warm, bracing as strong coffee.

“As you like, colonel.”

He sits, his uniform rustling. “You look well, lieutenant.”

“I look like barely reconstituted death, sir,” she says tartly. “But thank you for the thought.” She opens her eyes to the flame-colored light of sunset. “How was the day?”

“Ah, well,” he sighs, leaning back casually, “just another day, being dashing and handsome, heroically saving the city from unspeakable peril. You know how it is.”

“I see. Lots of paperwork today, sir?”

He sighs again, deeper and more dramatic. “So much paperwork.”

She smiles. She considers pointing out that if it had been such a busy day he shouldn’t have wasted Falman’s time on a useless errand, just to spy on her, but she doesn’t want to get the warrant officer in trouble. Silence spreads like shadows in the long light.

“You didn’t call me.” She almost doesn’t hear him; his voice is quiet, oddly plaintive.

It surprises her more than it should.

“I didn’t need anything,” she replies. “In fact, all day it’s seemed people were falling over themselves to look after me without my asking.”

“Oh?”

Honestly. She doesn’t know how he ever expects to beat Grumman at chess with such a poor poker face.

“It was considerate of Fuery to turn up out of the blue like that,” she observes.

“The sergeant major is a dutiful subordinate.”

“Very. Especially considering that before today, I’m quite sure he didn’t know where I lived.”

The colonel stammers. “Of course he — wait, didn’t he?”

“The real giveaway was the dumplings, though. There’s only one person I’ve ever met who thinks of those dense little lumps as comfort food.” She glances over to him; he’s gaping. “I’ll bring them in to the office tomorrow, sir,” she deadpans. “You can have them for lunch.”

A guilty silence stretches. “I thought you liked those,” he says, a little defensively.

“No, sir. _You_ like those.” In the face of his chagrined silence, she sighs, and offers, “You were right about the almond cake, though.” His face brightens, for a moment, until, “I hope it isn’t stale before I’m well enough to eat it.”

He’s quiet a moment, then breaks into a self-deprecating chuckle. He runs his fingers through his hair, an endearingly awkward gesture; the suave colonel, caught out. “There’s really no getting past you, is there, Hawkeye?”

“Not in the least, sir.” She tilts her face up, toward the darkening sky. Any moment now the streetlamps will flicker on. “Fuery will be back soon,” she says. “Unless you want to explain why you followed him here, you should probably go.”

“Understood, lieutenant.” A rustle and shift as he stands, next to her. “I’ll see you in the office tomorrow, then. Rest well tonight.”

“Yes sir.”

She’s closed her eyes again, so she can truly claim she didn’t see; maybe it’s the wind with its fingers in her hair, its lips’ brief warmth against her forehead.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, lieutenant.”

She smiles. “Thank you, sir.”


End file.
